Dandelion
by Baltering Nelipot
Summary: And then he's kissing me, and I melt against him in my return because this is the first real thing I've felt besides pain or fear in a long time, and I know that love is not a bandage that can heal brokenness but I believe that it is a good start. (Post-Mockingjay/Pre-Epilogue. One-Shot.)


***DISCLAIMER: All characters rightfully and respectfully belong to Suzanne Collins.***

***ADVISORY: Rated M for adult themes and explicit sexual content.***

***WARNING: Post-Mockingjay = major spoilers.***

***NOTICE: This is my first _real_ fanfic, so it may be mediocre and teeming with errors. Any and all advice is appreciated and encouraged.***

* * *

**Dandelion**

**.**

**.**

**.**

The liquor has run out.

It's the third time that this has happened, but this time tending to his geese does not take Haymitch's mind off of the burning thirst that only the effects of alcohol can quench.

I attempt to appear sympathetic and concerned when I walk through the front door, but I can't quite hide the disgust that scrunches my nose and knits my eyebrows when I catch a whiff of stale liquor and sour food; The signature stench of the Abernathy house. I find Haymitch in the dining room, slumped in a chair with his face pressed against the surface of the table and his hands curled into fists around his sweat-drenched hair, a mess of empty bottles and balled-up paper cluttered around his feet. I would believe him to be sleeping if the knee of his right leg wasn't bouncing up and down impatiently, as though there were a spring attached to the bottom of his heel.

Peeta sits across from him, sketching a series of circles and lines on a sheet of paper with one hand and resting his cheek in the other. "Three more days, Haymitch," he says in a monotonous sigh, his hopeless tone implying that he has already attempted to console the withdrawal-induced tantrums with no success. Haymitch merely gives a muffled grunt in response, not lifting his head.

"Waiting for the train?" I finally ask, causing Peeta to start a little as I step out of the hallway and make my presence known, walking over to the chair beside him and throwing my jacket over the back of it. I catch a glimpse of his drawing, and upon closer examination realize that the circles and lines all connect to take the form of an incomplete human figure.

Peeta nods wearily, though his eyes lighten noticeably as I sit beside him, and my heart falters and sinks simultaneously as the expected feelings of giddiness and dread lash at it.

Giddiness because of the way he looks at me.

Dread because I know that I'll never deserve it.

Holding my gaze, he reaches for my hand, and my fingers wrap around his almost immediately. It bothers me a little that I don't even need to think before I react to these little things he does. In the five months since we returned to the Victor's Village, I've found that each little touch he's given me, each gentle trace of fingertips to my cheek or brief brush of lips to my own, my hesitation seems to shrink smaller and smaller. It's become easier to open up, and that's strangely difficult to accept.

After a moment, I manage to tear my eyes away from his and look at Haymitch's crumpled and hunched figure across from me, my face arranged in a way that I hope appears concerned. "Haymitch?" I say carefully, in a voice that inadvertently sound like a warden speaking to a particularly sensitive mental patient, "You okay?"

"He won't answer you," Peeta tells me, but I hardly hear him. My brain annoyingly chooses to focus on the dumb and unimportant thing, which is the feeling of his thumb tracing circles over my knuckles, as though I'm another one of his drawings, "I've been trying to help him for the past two hours. He won't eat, he won't drink, he won't–"

"I feel like I'm part of the goddamn prohibition!" Haymitch exclaims suddenly, causing me to jump, and I watch his fingers tighten and tangle around his dirty overgrown tresses, veins visibly popping up through the sallow skin of his wrists, "How long has it been?"

I viciously fight the urge not to crack a smile as I exchange a look with Peeta. "Two days."

Haymitch groans hoarsely and thunks his forehead on the table a few times, hard enough to cause a glass bottle and a couple of drawing pencils to roll off of its surface. Peeta sighs at the ringing shatter of glass that ensues from the bottle hitting the tiles, and squeezes my hand one last time before releasing it and standing to get something to clean up the mess.

"How was your afternoon, Katniss?" he asks from the kitchen as I drop my chin in my hand and watch Haymitch shiver violently across from me, "Anything interesting?"

"They're rebuilding the grocery store," I reply listlessly, recalling the view of the skeletal building of wood planks and the resounding echo of hammers hitting nails. "Greasy Sae's granddaughter ran headfirst into my front door and lost a baby tooth. One of the geese's babies learned how to fly."

These are little things, but their simplicity and positivity are necessary to gradually push out the lingering dark thoughts that reside like parasites within my traumatized mind. A building for a face, a tooth for a scream, and a gosling for a lifeless body. It's the present that I strive to think of. There's plenty of room for the past in our book. And my nightmares.

"That's good," Peeta says lightly, his pleasant tone obviously directed at Haymitch in the hopes that the miserable man would cheer up a bit. His footsteps indicate that he's returning to the dining room, and I prepare to stand up and help him sweep away the broken glass.

"I was wondering when that one would learn," he continues, coming up behind me, "It's almost a week late, and-"

He cuts off mid-sentence, and something crashes to the floor almost directly behind me. I start in alarm, but before I can stand or even turn around, Haymitch's head suddenly snaps up and his red-rimmed eyes are wide and blazing. In a blur of movement that I'm not aware he is even capable of, Haymitch's hand is suddenly taking my shoulder and yanking me out of my chair and throwing me behind him.

"Hey!"

My back slams against the wall, hard enough to dim my vision briefly, and I shake my head to clear it before looking up to see him standing almost protectively in front of me. Confused, I attempt to shove past him, before my eyes fall upon what's over his shoulder. My stomach lurches and I take a step back as I realize what's happening.

Peeta is having an attack.

By an attack, I mean a sudden onslaught of memories. Of me. Of the person I'm not and the things I didn't do. The effects of his tracker jacker treatment, or "Hijacking", back at the capitol have never completely faded. This has happened twice since we returned to District 12, but those attacks had always been brief, a mere constriction of his shoulders or sudden gloss of his eyes, before he shuddered or blinked and was almost immediately back to his usual cheerful and sunny self; The baker boy that smiles even when there's very little to smile about.

Right now, he is everything but that. His jaw is clenched, his eyes are squeezed shut, and his breath seems to have stopped altogether. A broom and dustpan, the reason for the loud clatter, lay on the ground on either side of him. His hands are balled into fists at his sides, and a second later he throws them out and clutches the back of the chair I had just been sitting in, and I find myself wondering what would have happened if Haymitch hadn't pulled me away. I watch Peeta's fingernails dig crescent-shaped indents into the fabric of my jacket, which still hangs over the chair, and his back arches forward and his head bows, so that his eyes are covered by his bangs. He trembles for a moment as false flashbacks wash over him in violent waves that send tremors rippling down his back, and I involuntarily press my hands against my mouth in shock.

He looks ready to _kill_.

"Peeta," Haymitch says sharply, and I look up at him frantically with wide eyes. He's still standing defensively in front of me, and I'm horrified to see that his knife is out, though not brandished. "Tell me where you are right now."

I look back at Peeta, who hasn't moved from his most recent position, his downward face still hidden by his hair and his hands still gripping the chair that could have been my throat. He doesn't reply, only grits his teeth and shakes his head.

"Peeta!" Haymitch repeats, louder, "Where are you?"

This time, Peeta stops shaking, and for a moment everything is silent except for the rapid and ear-pounding thud of my heart. None of us breathe. A second passes. Two. Three. A bird calls out a short eveningsong through the window beside me and makes me jump. Four seconds. Five. I realize I'm clutching Haymitch's forearm like a frightened child and quickly release it. Six seconds. Seven. They seem to go on for an eternity as they build up into the double digits.

It's Peeta who finally breaks the silence.

"The dining room," he says quietly to the floor, his voice a mere murmur that's almost lost to the deafening sound of my heart, which stops at the sound of his voice "I'm in District 12. I'm in the Victor's Village. I'm in Haymitch's house. I'm in the dining room." He pauses. "Real or not real?"

"Real," Haymitch and I say in unison, and I bite my lip and mentally scream at the tears of relief to go back to wherever they came from. They decide to spill anyways, trailing down my cheeks like languid burning ashes, and I duck my head and wipe my face with my sleeve in a way that I hope appears casual.

Haymitch nods and plops back into his chair with an exasperated sigh, placing the knife back into the sheath on his belt and crossing his arms, watching Peeta closely as he raises his head and blinks in confusion.

"Katniss?" he croaks after a moment, his dazed eyes finding me and widening at my stance, and I realize how I must look to him. My back is pressed against the wall and my body is angled away from him, as though about to make a run for it. I release the breath that I've been holding for far too long and take a shaky one, before attempting a small smile.

"Peeta."

~xXx~

* * *

~xXx~

"I'm so sorry."

"Don't be."

"But I–"

"You did something you couldn't control, and even then you managed to keep it contained."

"Katniss, I nearly hurt you."

"But you didn't."

"I could've."

I sigh, growing tired of this argument already, and glance down at Greasy Sae's granddaughter (I later learned her name is Chrissy, short for Chrysanthemum, which is, of course, another type of flower) as she sleeps curled up in an armchair before the fire, her small round face lit with dimly flickering flames.

The muffled tinkling sound of dishes clinking together in soapy water from the kitchen indicates that Greasy Sae has just started to wash the dishes from dinner, cheerfully singing some ancient song about imagining people living in peace or something, her voice an off-key yet surprisingly pleasant warble. I can't help but smile at her hospitality, despite the fact that she was sent here by Haymitch to keep an eye on Peeta, who I had fought tooth and nail to allow to come home with me.

"If you hear her cry out or scream," I overheard him saying to her before we came inside, "if you see him drop anything or stop talking mid-sentence or get this strange detached look, don't even hesitate. Pull her away and threaten him with something and wait for him to come back."

Peeta isn't doing any of those things right now. He's sitting beside me on the carpet in front of the fireplace, farther away than necessary, gazing into the fire that is his favorite color and occasionally rubbing his eyes. It's not until I realize that I'm yawning at twenty second intervals that I decide I need to go to bed. When I stand, my joints pop from sitting for too long, and I groan slightly.

The singing stops abruptly and there's a clatter of a dish being dropped into the sink, and within seconds Greasy Sae has sprinted from the kitchen, surprisingly fast for her age, and is standing in the doorway and staring at us with distress, her eyes flicking from me to Peeta.

"False alarm," I tell her, amazed at her intense worry and keen ears, and she gives a weak smile and a nod before retreating slowly. The running water and humming resumes.

"This is exactly what I'm talking about," Peeta deadpans, getting to his feet as well and crossing his arms, though his eyes are flooded with guilt and shame, "I really think I should go–"

"No!" I say, quicker and louder than I mean to, and I groan again when I hear Greasy Sae's rushing footsteps. I wave her away with a forced smile and turn back to Peeta, who is looking at me as though this is further confirmation."No," I repeat, quieter and calmer than before as I dare myself to reach out and take his arm, which he uncrosses from the other without protest, "I have nightmares when you're not here."

I have nightmares all the time, actually, but it's immensely better when he's there to rouse me from them and hold me during the shaky and tearful aftermath.

He cocks an eyebrow as though considering this, but I know the battle is won; He will stay only because I've asked him to, and my heart plummets again when I remember that I don't deserve any of it. I don't deserve _him_.

After a moment, he sighs, and reaches out to take a stray strand of hair that hangs between my eyes, tucking it behind my ear. "Okay."

Trying not to let the joy show on my face too much, I give a small barely-contained smile and turn away from him. "We're going to sleep," I call to Greasy Sae, keeping a hush to my voice so as not to wake up Chrissy, "Goodnight."

After a second, her head pops through the doorway, and she looks at Peeta, who smiles sheepishly back at her. After a moment, she nods once, though doesn't look completely approving. Under her heavy gaze, I pull him towards the stairs before she can change her mind.

~xXx~

* * *

~xXx~

_Deep in the meadow..._

"I just want you to win. You will try, won't you? Really, really try?"

_...under the willow..._

"They let you wear one thing from your district in the arena. One thing to remind you of home. Will you wear this?"

_...A bed of grass..._

"Twirl for me."

_...a soft green pillow..._

"Sing."

_...lay down your head..._

"Just this one time, I let you go. For the little girl."

_...and close your sleepy eyes..._

"Please."

_...and when again they open..._

"Convince me."

_...the sun will rise..._

"Remember, girl on fire, I'm still betting on you."

_Here it's safe..._

"Hickory dickory dock."

___...here it's warm..._

"If we burn, you burn with us."

___...here the daisies guard you from every harm..._

And may the odds

_...here your dreams are sweet and tomorrow brings them true..._

be _ever_

_...here is the place where I..._

in your

___...love..._

favor

___...you..._

It's my own screams that wake me up, intermingling with the sudden deafening crack of thunder that seems to rattle the windows and shake the ground. Apparently Summer storms are far less predictable than my nightmares.

"Katniss?"

Peeta's voice is slurred with sleep, and he's alert in mere seconds as he turns over and sits up, but my hands are over my eyes before I can see his face, palms pressing into my eyelids as I try to push the images away. How many times can I watch the butt of that gun strike Cinna's jaw? How many times do I have to send an arrow straight into Cato's pleading eyes? How many times can the bombs go off and the island spin and the gunshots ring?

My palms are at my temples now as I pull my knees up to my chest and rock against the headboard, my eyes closed and yet still emitting limitless tears as flashes of dream and reality hit me as hard as the sobs that rack through my chest and roughen my throat. Careers, Avoxes, stylists, rebels, faces that seem to chase each other around the dark playground of my mind. Peeta is talking, his voice soothing and brimming with worry, but I don't catch any of his words. My ears are ringing with the sounds of firing canons and desperate screams, while my nose is filled with the scent of blood and roses.

And then I'm getting out of bed, or falling anyways, and I scramble to my feet and stumble to the window, which I throw open just as another deafening thundercrack shakes my very being along with my cries. Lightning flashes briefly and floods the room in white, and I gasp in the sweet damp air, flushing out the smell of memories as the rain hurtles onto the bushes below and occasionally sprays me with a mist that mixes with my tears. I lean down and want to be sick but nothing comes up, so I just breathe for a minute, jagged and shallow and yet somehow still amazingly _alive_, and for the hundredth time I think about how wonderfully easy it would be to just stop altogether and why don't I just jump out this window right now?

A gentle hand on my shaking shoulder reminds my why.

"Katniss."

I don't answer, my gasps gradually shrinking to pants, and he repeats my name. His voice is as gentle as the moist breeze that fans over my face, and I eventually raise my head but don't turn. The moon is full and reflecting through the rain that falls, like light refracting through a thousand tiny glass shards, and my stance in front of the windowsill is quite similar to the position he had taken during his attack; Shoulders hunched, head bowed, hands clutching the windowsill.

"I... I..." Nothing coherent leaves my lips through the inconvenient hyperventilation, so I merely shake my head and focus on the feeling of his hands tracing circles along the tops of my shoulders, and my tight grip on the sill loosens as I'm reminded of his drawing again. Maybe that's just what I am, and I need him to fill in the details before I crumble into a feeble pile of useless ink and parchment.

"You don't have to say anything," he assures me, "I just want you to breathe."

His lips are just at the shell of my ear as he whispers, and I shiver despite the warmth of the Summer rain as something flickers briefly in my stomach. I find it impossible to breathe properly with my mind full of dead faces screaming my name, so I turn my head to the side so that I can see him out of the corner of my eye. "Talk about something," I say, my voice a rasp that I barely hear over the whistling wind, "Anything. Just..."

I remember back in the arena when that Morphling had died for Peeta, and how he had described the sky in vivid and soothing detail to her before she fell to a peaceful and permanent rest. I'm not dying now, but I feel like I am, and I want his voice to envelop my plaguing thoughts and turn them away. Then I remember what Haymitch had done during Peeta's attack – He had asked him where he was.

"Ask me something," I correct myself, deciding that this would be better in bringing me back to the present. "Something easy. Something simple."

Peeta doesn't hesitate. "Your favorite color is green. Real or not real?"

As he speaks, his lips trace up to my temple and his arms snake around my waist, and I gratefully lean back and allow him to support me and guide me tediously back to my bed. "Real," I say weakly, but that particular question doesn't help because I'm reminded of Finnick's eyes and the smugness and tenderness and pain they had once held before he was killed by mutts. "Another one."

"You're an archer," he says quietly, brushing my hair to the side and planting a kiss on the corner of my jaw as we sit on the edge of the mattress, and I involuntarily shudder against him, "Real or not real."

"Real," I reply, my breathing slowing as this treatment seems to help, though my heart picks up speed as he continues to trail his lips back and along my shoulder, a little more deftly than wont, and I wrap my arms around the arms that are wrapped around my waist. But then my arrow sailing into Coin's heart flashes before my eyes, and I squeeze them shut and shake my head against his shoulder. "Another."

"You love the rain," he murmurs, his voice muffled by the skin of my neck, and I find myself leaning my head back to grant him more access, "Not the cold light kind, but the warm heavy kind, like tonight. Real or not real?"

"Real," I breathe, my back flush against his chest and stomach as he kisses away the tears that have gathered at the bottoms of my cheeks. I don't know if I'm referring to the questions or the kisses when I whisper, "More."

So he complies to both. "You are really stubborn sometimes," he continues, and I feel his smirk against my skin as he coaxes a light laugh out of me, "Real or not real?"

"Not real," I say, as his mouth brushes my pulse, and I imagine he can feel that it's fluttering faster than a hummingbird's wing, "I'm stubborn _all _the time."

"You aren't being stubborn right now," he points out, chuckling against my throat and sending a vibration of erratic nerves down my chest and stomach, and I sigh into the air, my arms and legs tingling as he continues to nip at spots beneath my ear and trace shapes into my waist with light fingertips.

Again I remember my lack of hesitation, my gradual eagerness to touch and be touched by this boy, and right now it's growing from eagerness to hunger as he slowly turns me around to face him and pulls me into an embrace, his mouth continuing to skim along my neck and throat and shoulders. It's the hunger I felt back on the beach, which feels like a hundred years ago. It had been a brief spark in my stomach that had flickered and died under circumstance, a spark that wanted to grow and surge through my veins like wildfire.

He pulls away now, taking my chin between his thumb and forefinger and lifting my face, and for a moment his gaze is intense and blue and as efficient in trapping me as a snare. Lightning illuminates us again. Through the sounds of the wind and rain and thunder, he says; "You are so beautiful," and when I don't respond, looking up my lashes at him in blushing disbelief, he responds for me. "Real."

And then he's kissing me, and I melt against him in my return because this is the first real thing I've felt besides pain or fear in a long time, and I know that love is not a bandage that can heal brokenness but I believe that it is a good start.

I feel him smile against my lips, a smile that could end wars and save lives, which it has technically already done, and I crush myself to him. My knees are on either side of his waist in a straddle and my hands are bunching the fabric of the collar of his shirt because the hunger and the heat is becoming too much and I need him closer. When I wore Cinna's dresses, when I was caught in the flames of the arena, when my name was called and screamed by a thousand adoring fans, I never truly felt like the girl on fire.

Now, with my blood boiling and a scorching coil tightening in the pit of my stomach, I do.

I need air again, and I reluctantly pull away, turning my face to the ceiling and gasping when his mouth returns to my throat, trailing across my jaw and around my ear and along my neck in ways that make my breath catch. His hands are hesitant as they leave my waist and roam up the expanse of my back, fingertips brushing along the path between my shoulderblades, and I tighten my grip around his shoulders and encourage him to continue. My back arches against his hands, causing my groin to press against his, and I hear him inhale sharply as he pulls away in surprise.

His breath is shallow as he looks at me with disoriented blue eyes. "Katniss," he says in a low voice, and clears his throat as a tinge of pink creeps up his cheeks. "Are you...? I mean..." He shakes his head a little to clear his mind. "You... it's not a good idea... I don't think you want–"

I lean forward and muffle the rest of his stammered sentence against my lips, catching his words in my mouth, and he does not object, instead plunging his hands into my hair and pulling me impossibly closer. Truth is, I _do _want this, and from the way he's angling his face to deepen the kiss, so does he. Perhaps he's even wanted this for awhile. I wonder if, when he isn't thinking about my eyes or voice or thoughts, if he's thinking about my body, about what it might look like beneath my clothes, about the different ways he could touch it, about how it would look stirring beside him in the morning.

I have never once thought these things about him before, but I am now as I press myself further against the protrusion in his jeans, and he breaks the kiss as his head rolls back and his breathing changes from shallow to labored, his eyelids fluttering closed. "Katniss," he sighs, his voice ardent and longing, and I boldly run my hands down his chest and stomach and slide them beneath the fabric of his shirt, my fingertips roaming the taut planes of his abdomen, all the while keeping up a gentle and admittedly teasing friction against the spot in his jeans that is becoming harder with every small grind my hips give, and when he says my name a second time it's a strained warning that indicates that I should stop now.

Rather than pulling my hands out from beneath his shirt, I pull them up, tugging the fabric skyward because I want to see what I'm touching. He realizes what my goal is and obliges wordlessly, assisting me in pulling his shirt over his head and tossing it to the floor behind me. His hair is tousled now and I reach up and run a hand through it, reaching out timidly with the other to trace the pale and faded scar that the capitol hadn't quite hidden, which stretches from the left side of his chest to the top of his shoulder. I lean forward and trace it with my lips, a kiss for a wound, feeling him shiver at my touch, before I rest my ear briefly against it to hear that his heart is thrumming even faster than mine.

When I pull back to look at him, he's watching me with such intensity in his eyes that I feel my cheeks flush, his pupils dilating considerably before shrinking back to normal. Mustering the nerve to hold his gaze with equal fervor and tenacity, I reach down and take the bottom of my own shirt in my hands, hooking my fingers around the hem of the fabric and pulling it upward, exposing my stomach and chest and shoulders and dropping it behind me, where it joins Peeta's to make crumpled heap of green and brown on the floor, resembling the forest. Despite the warmth of the misty breeze that drifts in from the window, goosebumps prickle along my bare forearms as I let him look at me, uncovered and open and a little flushed with anticipation.

After a moment, his lips touch mine, gentle yet vehement, and the feeling of our bare chests pressing together is enough to make flashes of lightning shoot through my stomach to match the ones that occasionally dart through the sky. The next thing I'm aware of, through the haze of kisses and touches that creates an intoxicating cloud that fogs my mind, is my body leaning back and my head touching the pillows, Peeta following with his elbows resting against the mattress on either side of me, supporting himself so that I don't feel his full weight.

I sense the hesitation in his kiss when his lips become languid and uncertain against mine. He pulls away and looks down at me with hooded eyes, blinking once, twice, three times, as though unable to fully register the fact that I'm complying and responding to him in ways that I never have before. I gaze back at him soberly, waiting expectantly for the question that I hear before it even passes his lips.

"Katniss," he says quietly, touching his forehead to mine and reaching up to cup my cheek in his hand, "are you sure?"

Keeping my eyes locked with his so that he can fully see the earnestness within them, I nod once. Because I am sure. I don't want to think, I don't want to dream, I just want to be lost in the feeling of him. The corner of his mouth turns up a little, but I catch the nervousness in his eyes as he leans down to give me a lingering and chaste kiss on the forehead, before rolling off of me so that we can easily remove the rest of our clothes. I reach down, ignoring the slight shake of my hands, and fumble with the button of my jeans, unclasping it and yanking them off, staring expressionlessly at the ceiling as I listen to him do the same.

Just because I'm sure doesn't mean I'm not afraid, and my skin crawls with anticipation. The act of bearing not only my soul but my body to someone is terrifying, and this is coming from a person who has faced death in the face multiple times. To give every inch of my flesh to the eyes and hands of another makes my stomach churn. With the stylists back at the capitol, it had been different; There was nothing tender or meaningful about the way they ripped wax off of my bare legs or scrutinized every corner of me without my consent. But this is something else entirely. This is giving myself, all of myself, over to another in an act of love. And that's scary as hell.

But then I remember; This is _Peeta _I'm worrying over.

Peeta, who has seen me shining in the spotlight one minute and dying in a ditch the next. Peeta, who overcame hours of mental torture for me. Peeta, who knows that a head full of fear has no room for love, so he spends every day trying to push the fear away. Peeta, who has seen my naked soul, so why shouldn't he see my naked body? It's like an epiphany in these few seconds as I turn my head to look at him, to trace the taut ripples of his back with my eyes, to see another scar between his shoulderblades that I'd like to kiss. I realize now how badly I want him. I want him not only inside of me but a part of me as well. I want our skin to merge and mix like his paints, his fair tone and my olive one creating a whole new color. I want our blood to mix and our veins to plait. I want his smiles and moans and touches to synchronize with my own. In fact... I need him. I need him because he's Peeta.

He's my painter, my baker, my dandelion in the Spring.

When he's returned to his position on top of me, I want to say these things to him, but I don't know how. He's the wordy one, the eloquent one, the one who can move entire districts to tears with just a few carefully chosen sentences. I cannot express myself this way, so I merely meet his gaze, which looks just as apprehensive as I feel, before reaching up to touch his cheek, his jaw, his lips. This is how I'll tell him, I decide. Through looks and touches. And from the way he smiles and closes his eyes and reaches up to place his hand over my own, I know he understands.

"Are you ready?" he whispers, opening his eyes, which are illuminated by the moonlight that fights through the rain and streams through the window.

I look back at him, biting my lip and sucking in a deep breath, registering the feeling of his heart thrumming against mine, of the soft warmth of the skin of his real leg and the smooth coolness of his prosthetic, of his eyes watching my face for any sign of discomfort. Ultimately feeling safer and securer than I've ever felt before, I brace myself against the pillows and bunch the fabric of the sheets in my hands before I reply with a quiet yet sure; "Yes."

And, after a brief second of shifting and searching, he is inside of me.

It hurts like hell.

My hands tighten into fists around the sheets and a gasp of pain escapes my lips as tears prickle the corners of my eyes. Apparently it hurts him too, because his teeth grit as he presses his palms into the pillows, his shoulders hunching and his head ducking as he buries his face into my shoulder, muffling a groan. We both lay like that for a moment, getting used to the closeness, the tightness, the pain, and when nearly a full minute later it subsides, he lifts his head and looks down at me with breathless worry. "You okay?" he asks hoarsely.

I nod, because I am, and he asks me if I want him to stop, and I shake my head. As the pain dissipates, the fire returns to replace it, weak and small but still there.

I want to know if I can make him feel it too.

A moment passes as he examines my face closely, before he takes a deep breath and moves. It's a slight shift, a gentle rock, and yet it's strong enough to send a web of pain emanating from my core like Tesla coils. We wince together, suck in deep breaths, and move again, this time in unison, as one. Pause. Then again. Pain. Pause. Then again. It's a tedious process, but the pain lessens with each movement, until we create a steady rhythm that is relatively painless but also seems to be just useless friction.

And then... I feel something.

A flicker of light, a trace of heat, a hint of a spark, like two rocks hitting together, and I catch it and clutch it and gasp when it starts to grow. Like a tree, it rises up my abdomen and branches through my chest and shoulders, fed by his movements, bubbling up my throat to release sighs laced with soft involuntary whimpers. I don't recall ever making sounds like this before. I release the wrinkled sheets and throw my arms around his neck, clinging to his shoulders while our breathing speeds up rapidly and our sighs harmonize. My head feels full and my shoulders feel tingly and there's a pressure building in the pit of my stomach that winds tighter and tighter, and my nails hook around his shoulderblades and bite into his skin for support as he continues to rock against me, inside me, gaining speed and triggering something within me that wants to explode.

His name leaves my mouth in an involuntary cry, which is fortunately drowned by a resounding thunderclap, and he presses his lips firmly to mine to muffle the moans and mewls that escape my throat as his body continues to touch and shift against mine in dizzying ways. Soon my body yearns for a release, for a peak, and flames ignite on my skin as I pull him closer, burying my face into the side of his neck, tightening my arms around his shoulders and my legs around his waist. The rhythm picks up and all I can feel is fire and all I can say is Peeta... Peeta... Peeta...

And then it happens, the pressure and the zeal bursting altogether as the coil tightens as far as it can go and bursts into flames. My heart pounds deafeningly in my ears and sends boiling blood surging through my veins as a thousand mockingjays take flight beneath my skin, and I toss my head back against the pillows and shatter completely beneath him, a gasp tearing from my throat as euphoria and ecstasy wash over me in white-hot waves, and I tip over the edge into these waves. But he's there to catch me, to anchor me, to clutch me as I tremble and lurch against him, his thrusts fervent and passionate and radiating so much heat and love that it makes my head spin.

When he goes rigid above me, my name a litany that he sighs in my ear, I know what's happening. I take his face in my hands and kiss him, as deep and full as I ever have, and he moans into my lips and shudders against me and I see nothing but orange on the backs of my closed eyelids, orange like fire, like the sun, like the sunset he talks of so fondly, and then it's over and we're gasping with our foreheads touching and our chests heaving.

For a moment, it is quiet, the only sounds being our jagged breaths and the whisper of the rain. The storm is retreating, the thunder a soft rumble, and all is calm.

"Peeta," I whisper after a moment, just to say it, to taste the name the way that I have tasted his skin.

He smiles down at me, weak and breathless, and brushes a lock of damp hair from my forehead. "Katniss," he murmurs, holding my gaze as he rolls off of my body and lays on his side beside me, and I curl up against him as fatigue settles over me along with the covers he pulls up to my shoulders. For a moment, he doesn't speak, but I see the question he wants to ask, see it in his dilating eyes that are brimming with love and his parted lips that are swollen from passion. When he finally speaks, his voice is lighter than the fingertip he traces down my cheek.

"You love me. Real or not real?"

His eyelids are fluttering with exhaustion and his hand is stroking my cheek as I look back at him with earnest eyes. I know that, despite the traumatizing horrors of our pasts and the lingering flaws of our presents, our futures are full of hope and strength. As hopeful as the dandelion that grows through the snow and as strong as the parachuted seeds that drift through the air, granting wishes and spreading life. And despite the fact that I cannot be completely certain of something as unpredictable and easily-manipulated as the future, I am certain of one thing.

I am certain that I love Peeta Mellark.

I tell him, "Real."


End file.
